


break me like a promise (so casually cruel)

by shineyma



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Betrayal, Episode: s01e17 Turn Turn Turn, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2015-06-29
Packaged: 2018-04-06 21:10:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4236738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The blood on Jemma’s face is still warm when Hand gets the call.</p>
            </blockquote>





	break me like a promise (so casually cruel)

**Author's Note:**

> Quick notes, because I'm gonna be late for class: 
> 
> This is not the fic I expected to be posting today (actually, it kind of is, but then it wasn't)--funny story, tell you later. I am again behind on comment replies, because I am the worst; sincere apologies, and I hope to catch up later tonight.
> 
>  **Warning** : for threats and resulting fear of non-con. There is none, there will _be_ none, but there is discussion of it and a logical reaction to said discussion, so if there's a possibility of triggers there, please do proceed with caution.
> 
> Title from Taylor Swift's _All Too Well_. Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

The blood on Jemma’s face is still warm when Hand gets the call.

“Finally,” the—horrible, hateful, _HYDRA_ —woman says, returning the phone to her pocket.

“Ma’am?” one of the nameless agents milling about asks.

“Garrett has finally handled Coulson’s team,” she says, and the bottom drops out of Jemma’s stomach. “They’re in Auxiliary Power Station C. Let’s move.”

The agent holding Jemma all but drags her along the corridors, which is both painful and entirely unnecessary. She’s not fighting. Not because there’s no fight left in her—there is, in fact, plenty; an uncontrollable, overwhelming swirling of panic and hate and terror and determination making her breath short and her heart race—but because she wants to go where they’re taking her.

She needs to know what’s happened to her team, and she’ll never believe it unless she sees it with her own two eyes.

She regrets the thought as soon as she’s brought into the room. Her head spins. Her knees buckle. Only the bruising grip the brute holding her has on her arm keeps her from falling.

Coulson.

May.

 _Fitz_.

“I thought I told you to take Agent Fitz alive,” Hand says, voice tight with displeasure.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Garrett—bloody traitor, damn him—says cheerfully. “We did. He’s just sleeping off one of those ICER rounds.” Jemma’s eyes are fixed on her teammates, the bodies lined up on the ground before her, but her peripheral vision catches the sad shake of his head. “He was totally uncontrollable after we shot May. He and Coulson both went crazy.”

A scream rises to Jemma’s throat and sticks there, caught behind her panic. She feels as though her lungs have been punctured: no matter how much oxygen she takes in, they refuse to inflate, demanding more and more as she tries to remember how to close her eyes.

Fitz may be alive (and thank God, thank _God_ for that), but May and Coulson are most certainly dead. There’s a gunshot wound in the center of May’s forehead and a puddle of blood spread out beneath Coulson’s body—too much blood.

She’s shaking uncontrollably. She doesn’t want to see this. She doesn’t want to see this, but she can’t look away.

“By the way,” Garrett says. “Are the handcuffs really necessary? She’s a _scientist_ ; I don’t think she’s much of a threat to a whole room full of operations agents.”

“She killed Agent Chaimson,” Hand says dryly, and Jemma’s stomach twists with vicious satisfaction at the mention. “Disarmed him and shot him twice in the chest.”

She shouldn’t be celebrating a death— _especially_ not one she caused—but he deserved it. He _deserved_ it and she’s glad he’s dead and she _wishes_ she could do it again—

“I told you, didn’t I?” A familiar hand lands on her shoulder and squeezes. Jemma’s heart stops. “You shouldn’t underestimate Simmons.”

Ward. It’s Ward. Ward is taking off his tac vest and shaking hands with Garrett and _stepping over Coulson’s body_ like it’s nothing, like it’s normal, like—

Like he’s one of them.

There’s a conversation happening, but she can’t hear it above the roaring in her ears. What fight is left in her—was there any? She thinks that moments ago there was plenty, but can’t remember at all what it felt like—drains away. She can’t remember what _anything_ feels like.

She’s numb.

This is a nightmare.

Trip—sweet, kind Trip, who tried to protect her, who gave his _life_ to protect her—and May and Coulson dead. Ward a _traitor_. Skye—

What about Skye?

Hand is wondering the same thing, it seems. “The hacker?”

“Dead,” Ward reports carelessly, and Jemma barely flinches. She’s absorbed too many blows in too short a time; even this news can’t rock her any further. “I trained her too well; she almost got the drop on me. Had to take her out.”

“Aww.” Garrett frowns exaggeratedly. “I’m sorry, kid. I know you wanted her.” He hums thoughtfully, then brightens. “Oh, here.”

His hand clamps down on Jemma’s shoulder, and he gives her a hard shove, sending her stumbling into Ward’s chest. He catches her by the arms and steadies her, and when she dares a look up at him, he’s glaring at Garrett.

“You can have her instead,” Garrett offers, and Jemma finds that she is, in fact, still capable of being affected; ice creeps over her as a sob rises to her throat, and only the scream still trapped there keeps it from slipping out. “One teammate’s as good as another, right?”

“No, thanks.” Ward’s voice is sharp with disapproval, but the squeeze he gives Jemma’s arms is gentle. Something in her cracks at the familiar gesture of reassurance. “You know that’s not my style, John.”

“Right, right,” Garrett says. “My mistake.”

Despite his words, Ward hasn’t let go of her yet. She doesn’t quite dare to try pulling away; she’s light-headed from terror as it is, and if he refuses to release her, she fears she’ll actually faint.

“Still, you sure?” Garrett asks. “A sweet little thing like her’s gonna be in high demand.”

This time, a sob does escape her, and Ward sighs and draws her into a hug. She hates herself more than a little for the way it actually _comforts_ her, for the way that part of her trusts him to protect her, even now.

She wants to shove him away. She wants to hug him back.

Luckily, she’s spared deciding between those very conflicting impulses. With her hands still cuffed behind her, all she can do is stand there, resting her forehead against his chest and struggling with nausea.

She wants the numbness back. It was so fleeting and so much better than this.

“Don’t be disgusting,” Hand snaps. “Simmons is a valuable asset. If a single one of your men touches her, I’ll shoot him myself.”

Ward sighs again and says something. Jemma doesn’t know the language and can’t read the tone, so she has no idea what it might be, but it makes Garrett laugh and Hand scoff.

Perhaps it’s better that she can’t understand.

After a moment, Ward’s hold on her shifts. He keeps one arm around her back, warm and solid and horribly reassuring, but he removes the other in favor of tipping her chin up. She closes her eyes; she doesn’t want to see his right now.

He tsks a little under his breath, and his other arm falls away. Part of her is relieved. Another part, hollow and desperate, yearns to have it back.

The touch of something soft on her face prompts her to open her eyes. She can’t make sense of what’s happening right away, but when she does, her stomach turns.

He’s cleaning the blood off of her face with a square of gauze. He’s just—holding her chin with one hand and cleaning her face with the other, brisk but gentle. Like she’s a child who’s made a mess of her lunch.

She wants to scream. She wants to shoot him. She wants him to hug her again.

She wants this to be a nightmare.

“Whose blood is this?”

No one has directly addressed her since Hand’s fateful question in the nerve center, so it takes Jemma a moment to realize he’s asking her. It takes a moment longer to decide whether or not to answer.

When she does, she has to swallow twice before she can speak. “Trip’s.”

“That’s a shame.” Ward frowns. “I always liked him.” Apparently satisfied, he crumples the gauze in his fist and drops it. Then his hand returns to her face, fingers brushing over the sore spot on her cheek. Judging by the pain, it’s certain to bruise—assuming she lives long enough. “He was trying to protect you?”

Another sob wells in her throat. Eyes stinging, she tries to look away, but his hold on her chin tightens, keeping her in place.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he says. “Who hit you?”

She doesn’t know how to quantify the look in his eyes. They’re darker than they’ve been since he was in the grips of the berserker rage, yet at the same time, there’s a lightness to him she’s never seen before. None of the weight he perpetually carries on his shoulders is present—none of the awkward tension that flavors his every interaction.

“Was anything about you real?” she asks, voice cracking. She doesn’t know why it matters—why _anything_ matters, when he’s just cleaned Trip’s blood off her face, when Fitz is unconscious across the room, when Coulson and May and Skye are all dead—but it does. “Anything at all?”

“Not much,” he says, and gently brushes away the tears she can’t hold back at his casual tone. “But don’t take it personally, Simmons. This has nothing to do with you.”

Unbelievable.

“Is that supposed to comfort me?” she asks.

“It should,” he says, and tips his head in the direction of Coulson and May’s bodies. She can’t follow the motion, not with him holding her still, and she’s pathetically grateful for it. “You’ve seen what happens when it _is_ personal. Now,” he tilts her chin up a little further, tapping his finger against her sore cheek. “Tell me who hit you.”

She doesn’t remember his name. She heard it, she’s certain—heard Trip spit it at him, accompanied by the word _traitor_ —but at this point she’s so sick and so—so _shattered_ —that she’s fortunate she remembers her _own_ name.

She doesn’t know why it matters. But Ward is still holding her in place, eyes too dark and too light at once, and she wants to answer his question, if only so he’ll let her go and leave her to be tortured or killed in peace. She wants desperately to be passed off to Hand—or even Garrett—just _anyone_ but this man she has trusted and called a friend for months now.

That the organization she has given her life to is rotten to the core is too massive, too vast, for even a mind as brilliant as hers to grasp in so short a time. But this—this immediate, personal betrayal—this she can comprehend. _This_ can break her, if she lets it.

“I don’t know,” she says. “The taller one. With the scar.”

His eyes flick past her. “Hollen?”

That sounds right. She shrugs one shoulder awkwardly (and gingerly; with her hands still restrained behind her back, she’s reaching the point where discomfort becomes pain), and Ward nods.

“Should’ve guessed,” he says, and finally releases her chin.

Jemma doesn’t have time to be relieved; he’s touching her again at once, taking her by the shoulders and turning her to face the rest of the room. She closes her eyes; she doesn’t want to see May and Coulson again, doesn’t want to see Fitz’s clothes stained with their blood—it’s too easy to imagine that he, too, is dead—too easy to imagine what will happen to them next.

The sudden absence of the force which has kept her shoulders in their uncomfortable position for the last—hour? Year? She’s lost all sense of time—takes her by surprise. The rush of blood resuming its normal flow is less of a shock, as is the accompanying pain, but she still can’t bite back the rather pathetic sound that escapes her at the pins and needles sensation paired with the strain in her shoulders.

“There,” Ward says. She hears the handcuffs he’s just removed from her wrists hit the ground, and then he’s rubbing her shoulders, massaging them gently. “Isn’t that better?”

She bites the inside of her cheek, determined not to respond. In this, she is successful. In keeping her mind from dwelling on the way that he keeps _touching_ her, despite his words to Garrett, she is much less so.

Just the thought of suffering—suffering _that_ , especially at Ward’s hands (would it be better or worse than at the hands of a stranger?), makes her feel as though all of her organs have shrunk. Her lungs can’t retain enough oxygen, her heart must quadruple in speed to maintain normal blood flow, and the gaping emptiness where organ tissue is meant to be leaves her hollow.

No longer restrained, this time she’s capable of wiping her tears away herself as they spill over once more.

It’s unexpectedly painful, and a single glance shows why. She has no memory at all of fighting against the handcuffs, but she must have, because her wrists are in terrible shape. They’re red and swelling, obviously in the process of bruising, and smeared with blood where the skin has broken in some spots.

“And you say _I_ need to be more careful,” Ward tsks. Before she even realizes he’s come to stand in front of her, he’s folding her hands in his, turning her wrists this way and that to examine them. “Why don’t I patch these up for you?” He aims a teasing smile at her. “A little bit of role reversal. _I_ can play the medic for once.”

The smile is a step too far. “And I’ll play the backstabbing traitor?”

His hands tighten painfully around hers as his smile fades, and her brief spark of anger disappears under another cold rush of fear at the look on his face.

“You’re gonna wanna watch that attitude, Simmons,” he warns.

She doesn’t have the courage to meet his eyes any longer, but she can’t bear to look at the carnage behind him. Instead, she drops her gaze to their feet. There’s blood on both their shoes, and it makes her stomach turn.

“Better,” he says, and releases her left hand in order to tuck a loose lock of hair behind her ear. His touch lingers, stirring an odd mix of ice and comfort in her gut, and her breath shudders in her chest. “Come here.”

He tugs her over to one of the workstations, kicking out a chair and waving his free hand at it. His other hand remains clasped with hers until she’s sitting, at which point he lets go after what she suspects is a very deliberate pause.

It should be a relief, finally being shed of his touch—it _is_ a relief. But it also leaves her feeling bereft.

She hates herself for that. Nearly as much as she hates him.

“I’ll be right back,” he tells her, and she stares fixedly at her knees, fearful of what expression might accompany such a reassuring tone. “Stay here.”

He walks away without waiting for a response, which is just as well, really. She doesn’t know what she would say—doesn’t know she could trust her voice at to work at all, not with the ice that seems to have encased her entire body.

Breathing is still a struggle. She suspects that speaking is beyond her.

Hand and Garrett have not been standing idly by during her conversation with Ward. She’s been very peripherally aware of them—taking phone calls, giving orders to their respective foot soldiers, conferring over whatever it is HYDRA agents confer over—but hasn’t been able to pay them any mind.

Now, with nothing but her fear to distract her, she finds that they’ve moved on to quarrelling.

“—exposed to the Chitauri virus,” Hand is saying. “If we can weaponize it—”

“Half the brains at the Sandbox have gotten their hands on that helmet by now,” Garrett counters. “She’s the _only_ one we’ve got that’s studied the GH-325—”

Specifically, she realizes, they’re arguing over which of them gets to keep her.

Jemma has been the focus of departmental bidding wars several times over the course of her career. Never before has it made her feel so ill. She swallows the bile rising in her throat; though a spiteful part of her rather relishes the thought of being sick all over Hand’s trousers (still immaculate, despite the blood and death and explosions that have marked this day), she’s wary of drawing their attention.

It’s just as well; Ward is back in moments, bearing a first aid kit.

“Right wrist first,” he orders, perching on the edge of the workstation, and she offers it without protest.

He gets as far as cleaning the blood off of her wrist before pausing, thumb over her pulse. Her heart is racing, fast enough to make her feel almost ill, and his brow furrows as he looks down at her.

She can’t meet his eyes for long; she drops her gaze back to her knees, and after a moment, he resumes tending to her wrist.

“You don’t need to be scared, Simmons,” he says, softly, as he does so.

It’s such an absurd statement that it actually makes her laugh. Granted, the sound is nearly indistinguishable from a sob, and comes accompanied by a few tears, but it’s definitely a laugh.

“Hey.” Ward squeezes her forearm gently, just far enough from her wrist not to hurt at all, as he secures the gauze with his other hand. “You don’t, okay? I’m gonna take care of you.”

His hands are warm on her chilled skin—have been warm this whole time, and she imagines she can still feel every time he’s touched her today, burning her skin like a brand. She doesn’t know whether to lean into him or curl away.

“That shouldn’t frighten me?” she asks, eyes drifting to Garrett.

Ward makes an annoyed sound that brings tears to her eyes once more for its familiarity. In the early days of their team, before the rough edges were smoothed over and honest dislike became grudging affection (became something approaching familial love), Skye and Fitz used to compete over who could elicit that noise from him more often.

Now Skye is dead.

“John’s an ass,” he says, stopping that train of thought before it can get any further. He slides off the workstation, onto his knees in front of her, and takes both her hands in his. “He was just trying to scare you into line, that’s all.” He squeezes her hands, eyes dark and sincere, and it’s suddenly difficult for Jemma to breathe past the lump in her throat. “I’m a lot of things, Simmons, but I’m not a rapist. I’m not gonna touch you. And,” he adds, face going dark, “Neither is anyone else.”

Ward betrayed their entire team—their entire _organization_. He works for HYDRA, has essentially handed them over to the enemy, and personally murdered Skye, someone who trusted and loved him like family—someone Jemma would have sworn, this morning, that _he_ trusted and loved like family. It’s hard to believe that _this_ is his line, that he even _has_ a line he won’t cross.

She wants to, though. She wants very, very badly to believe him—and not only because of what it will mean for her if he’s lying.

“And when I refuse to cooperate?” she asks, looking again to Garrett and Hand. “I don’t imagine you’ll be letting me go if I politely decline to work for you.”

He chuckles. “No. We won’t. But…” His expression grows grim. “We have other, more permanent ways of making you comply. Trust me when I say you don’t wanna experience them.”

Horribly, she does. Trust him, that is—at least in this.

“I can’t work for HYDRA,” she says, and it’s absurd, but she’s ashamed of the waver in her voice. “I won’t.”

“Yeah, you will,” he disagrees, tone almost kind. “One way or another.”

With that, he reaches for the first aid kit, relocates it to the ground next to him, and begins tending her other wrist. His fingers are sure but gentle, and perhaps she does believe him after all, because his touch evokes much more comfort than ice, now.

“This looks painful,” he observes, frowning slightly, as he cleans the blood away. “Who cuffed you?”

She’s grateful for the change in topic; though she hates to think of it, she can’t imagine that he’s wrong. She’ll do her best to withstand whatever tortures HYDRA devises for her, but she is one woman and HYDRA is a very resourceful organization which has had decades to refine its coercion techniques. In the end, she’ll almost certainly buckle beneath HYDRA’s force.

That she’ll surrender, that her resistance will fail, seems inevitable. In the meantime, she’d rather not think about it.

“Hollen,” she says, remembering the name Ward provided earlier.

His frown deepens. “Before or after he hit you?”

“Before.”

“Huh,” he says, and sets down the gauze he’s only just picked up. “Hold that thought.”

He does a quick scan of the room and then pushes himself to his feet; following his gaze, she finds that it’s fixed on Hollen, who’s standing just a few feet away, at parade rest behind Hand.

Hollen is a large man—of a height with Ward, if not taller—with an awful scar down the left side of his face. She thought him intimidating when he dragged her into the nerve center for Hand’s perusal; now, having been personally threatened and harmed by him—having seen him kill Trip—she finds him utterly terrifying.

Though not half so terrifying as Ward, who—casually, almost _idly_ , as though it’s nothing—draws his gun and shoots Hollen right between the eyes.

Jemma’s shock freezes her—which is just as well, because if it didn’t, she might well try to run, and she has nowhere to go. (And even if she _did_ have somewhere to go, she couldn’t, not without Fitz.) 

As it is, she can’t move. She can barely breathe. She stays right where she is, stuck in place, as Ward returns his gun to its holster and shrugs, unconcerned, in response to Hand and Garrett’s raised eyebrows.

And that’s all they are—raised eyebrows, idle signs of curiosity. No demands to know what Ward was thinking, no admonishments. Just silent questions.

“Felt like it,” Ward says.

Garrett nods, as though this is a perfectly acceptable explanation for _murdering_ one of one’s own allies, and Hand merely sighs.

“Try to contain yourself,” she orders, and—just like that—returns to her argument with Garrett.

Jemma’s stomach turns, though whether at the complete lack of compassion on display, the evidence of Ward’s standing—he can take a life for no reason and face no repercussions at _all_?—or the mere fact that a man has just been executed (there’s really no other word for it) in front of her for the second time today, she’s not certain.

She supposes it doesn’t matter.

“Now,” Ward says, and kneels down in front of her once more. “Where were we?”

He picks up the gauze and sets to bandaging her wrist, and all she can do is stare at him.

“You—you—”

He finishes securing the gauze, then looks up at her with a smile. “I told you I’d take care of you.”

And of all the things she’s heard today—all the things she’s seen, all the things she’s done, even?

 _That_ is unquestionably the most terrifying.


End file.
